Sometimes grovelling in the dust of gross selfishness which clings more or less to all of us, we bow worshipping before the gods, into which we elevate the meanest qualities of our own nature, apotheosizing sinful lusts of hate and vengeance; and while we vow reckless tribute and measureless libations, lo, we are unexpectedly called upon for speedy payment!

Looking down with exultant delight on the ugly deformity who stared back wonderingly at her, Mrs. Orme’s wan thin face grew radiant, the brown eyes dilated, glowed, and the blood leaped to her hollow cheeks, burning in two scarlet spots; but the invocation seemed literally answered, when she was suddenly conscious of a strange bubbling sensation, and over her parted, laughing lips crept the crimson that fed her heart.

At this moment the child’s nurse, a pretty bright-eyed young coquette, hurried toward the group, accompanied by a companion of the same class; and as she approached and seized the handles of the carriage, Mrs. Orme turned away.  The hemorrhage was not copious, but steady, and lowering her thick veil, she endeavoured to stanch its flow.  Her handkerchief, already damp from contact with the wet hat, soon became saturated, and she was obliged to substitute the end of her lace mantle.

Fortunately Mrs. Waul, impatiently watching for her return, caught a glimpse of the yet distant figure and hastened to meet her.

“Are you crying?  What is the matter?”

“My lungs are bleeding; lend me a handkerchief.  Try and find a carriage.”

“What caused it?  Something must have happened?”

“Don’t worry me now.  Only help me to get home.”

Screened both by veils and parasols, the two had almost gained the street, when they met a trio of gentlemen.

One asked in unmistakable New-England English: 

“Laurance, where is your father?”

And a voice which had once epitomized for Minnie Merle the “music of the spheres,” answered in mellow tones: 

“He has been in London, but goes very soon to Italy.”

Mrs. Waul felt a trembling hand laid on her arm, and turned anxiously to her companion.

“Give me time.  My strength fails me.  I can’t walk so fast.”

The excitement of an hour had overthrown the slow work of weeks; and after many days the physicians peremptorily ordered her away from Paris.

“Home!  Let us go home.  You have not been yourself since we reached this city.  In New York you will get strong.”

As Mrs. Waul spoke she stroked one of the invalid’s thin hands, that hung listlessly over the side of the sofa.

“I think Phoebe is right.  America would cure you,” added the grey-haired man, whose heart was yearning for his native land.

Alluring, seductive as the Siren song that floated across Sicilian waves, was the memory of her fair young daughter to this suffering weary mother; and at the thought of clasping Regina in her arms, of feeling her tender velvet lips once more on her cheek, the lonely heart of the desolate woman throbbed fiercely.